


Lunar Eclipse

by ladyblahblah



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-01
Updated: 2012-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 10:51:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyblahblah/pseuds/ladyblahblah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PWP.  Voyeur!Chekov.  Inappropriate use of Sickbay.  Enter at your own risk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lunar Eclipse

Pavel Andreievich Chekov came from a good Russian Orthodox family. He had been baptized as an infant and brought up in the Church along with his brothers and sisters. It had been, for him, like the moon perhaps: large and important, but also distant. It was a constant for him, and as such had lacked a profound enough influence on such an active mind to retain its hold on him once he left for Starfleet Academy at the tender age of twelve. In his years there he had fallen out of the habits of offering confession, of taking communion, and the strict catechisms of his early youth were pushed further and further towards the back of his mind. It wasn’t, exactly, that he didn’t care; but every planet had a moon of its own, and his was far away here in the deep reaches of space. It was out there, certainly, but for him its light had dimmed into near nonexistence.

Only sometimes it seems just as bright as it did when he was a boy, and always, as the good doctor would say, at damned inconvenient times.

This was wrong, he thought, fingers skimming lightly over the front of his trousers, eyes drifting shut as his breath caught in his chest. It was sinful, though that thought hadn’t stopped him from trying it out after walking in on his roommate indulging himself his first year at the Academy. But the voice of the priests hadn’t sounded in his head then as they did now, whispering of fornication and hellfire and the destruction of the wicked. Whispering even as he leaned back against his door, teeth sunk into the knuckles of one fisted hand while the other plucked desperately at his zipper.

He had only dropped by sickbay on a whim, really. It had become a recent habit to do so, as the doctor ( _BonesMcCoyLeonardDoctor_ ) usually ended his shift at the same time and was occasionally amenable to a drink and perhaps a game of checkers. Chekov liked to hear him talk about his daughter—which he was willing to do with only the slightest provocation—or hear him describe a sweltering Mississippi summer, or grumble about how often he was being forced to beam down on away missions when he didn’t “trust that damned infernal technology any farther than I can throw it.” It hadn’t quite occurred to him that McCoy might be working a different shift that day, or that he might want to exercise a touch of caution upon entering a public area of the ship.

Growing up with three older sisters and an innate sense of curiosity had made Chekov light on his toes. A very good thing for him, as McCoy had neglected to engage the privacy screen around the bed he was perched on, giving him a clear line of sight to the open doorway. It also gave the ensign’s wide eyes a perfect view of exactly what was going on in the otherwise empty sickbay, of the doctor’s throat bared as his head fell back in hedonistic abandon. Strong surgeon’s hands buried in the thick, dark hair of the crew member kneeling between his legs, encouraging the rhythmic bobbing that was pulling strangled sounds from a throat dusted with evening stubble.

In the dark solitude of his cabin Chekov gave in to temptation and slipped a trembling hand around himself, stroking and tugging in a familiar rhythm.

It had not been the sight itself that had left him rooted to the spot, unable to move for several breathless seconds and grateful beyond measure—later, when he could think enough to be grateful—that McCoy was too absorbed in what he was doing to notice a shell-shocked ensign gaping at him from the doorway. It wasn’t what he was sure was a violation of some Starfleet code or other regarding appropriate use of the sickbay that had his heart racing when he finally recovered enough to bolt back around the corner. It was the fact that it was another man with his hands and mouth on the Enterprise’s chief medical officer, wide shoulders and slim hips and Chekov was left with the image burned into his brain and his own arousal embarrassingly evident.

Shame tried to tug at him again, but the priests’ voices were being drowned out by the roar of blood in his ears, and the moon was being eclipsed by rising waves of need that clouded his vision. He had never thought of the doctor this way before tonight, he would swear to it. Perhaps he had left their occasional friendly meeting with something more than McCoy’s Kentucky whiskey warming his belly and loosening his smile. Perhaps he had studied the doctor’s hands a moment or two longer than was strictly necessary, fascinated by the shape of his fingers and the neat, blunt ends of his nails. Perhaps, from time to time, he had acted a touch clumsier than he actually was because Leonard was a sucker for slapstick and the man didn’t smile nearly often enough in Pavel’s mind.

But he had never wondered what that smile might taste like, how those hands might feel on his body. He had never imagined, as he did now, how it would be to taste the root of him, feel his lips stretching to accommodate, test the weight of it on his tongue. Never wondered if McCoy would taste the same way he smelled, warm and smoky and salty and just the tiniest bit sweet.

He tightened his hand around himself; his Doctor wasn’t one for subtle touches, he knew, and the thought had him coming unraveled in his own palm.

Chekov stared down at his sticky fingers, his head still buzzing in the aftermath of his release. He waited, now that lust had run its course, for shame to return to swamp him. Shame at his self-abuse, shame at wanting carnal knowledge of another man. It was bred deep within him, he was sure, the disgust that he ought to feel with himself.

But even with the evidence of his sin cooling on his fingers, the shame did not come. He could not see the moon from where he stood, couldn’t feel its pull. It was busy with another world and had no thoughts to spare for one lone boy drifting through the blackness so far away from its influence. There was only new life to explore out here, and the thought made Chekov smile.

He had never attempted a mission of this sort before. But Pavel Andreievich Chekov had always been a very fast learner.


End file.
